"A word to the wise:

Cry grains of sand

And you'll be buried alive."

You say your vision spun the logic threads

to stitch your heart immune to what the others bled.

But tilling here the open fields of dread

I wonder,

Whose skin doesn't burn under the sun?

There's a hole in the fabric of our souls:

Half plastic, half elastic, it holds

the potential to grow

depending which side we embrace.

And like a parallel dimension

We hang in suspension

awaiting the actions of the other

to write futures untold.

While space guitars

Harmonize nebulas with stars

And I'm drumming on the rings of Saturn

from home with my eyes closed.

And you shake me in my chair

in frightening patterns.

Labeling me a misguided dream

While I cry ethereal tears of crystal gleams

that never shatter...

Yes, my words escape as tattered

But, my battered breath is fatter

as it splatters on the canvas:

And I urge you to speak in a million colors

Even if the smothered blends

Cannot be discernibly measured.

So if it makes your body shudder

Grab hold of the nearest wall

And let the vibrations

Release through it all...

Again I say,

These thoughts are parenthetical(s) devised

to keep an open end

to all the hypotheticals alive...

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Gwynn Layman's picture

Dude! your a realy awsome writer. from the poems i have read so far writen by you i can hardly find the word(s) to describe how good you are at this. your poems are so rithmical(sry i cant spell) cant wait to read more!!!!